You were right to
come, my child. Music is your proper air. If things are not all what
they ought to be, you shall soon forget. In music--in music, we can
get away. After all, my little friend, they cannot take our dreams from
us--not even a wife, not even a husband can do that. Come, we shall have
good times yet!"
And Gyp, with a violent effort, threw off that sudden weakness. From
those who serve art devotedly there radiates a kind of glamour. She
left Monsieur Harmost that afternoon, infected by his passion for music.
Poetic justice--on which all homeopathy is founded--was at work to try
and cure her life by a dose of what had spoiled it. To music, she
now gave all the hours she could spare. She went to him twice a
week, determining to get on, but uneasy at the expense, for monetary
conditions were ever more embarrassed. At home, she practised steadily
and worked hard at composition. She finished several songs and studies
during the spring and summer, and left still more unfinished. Monsieur
Harmost was tolerant of these efforts, seeming to know that harsh
criticism or disapproval would cut her impulse down, as frost cuts
the life of flowers. Besides, there was always something fresh and
individual in her things. He asked her one day:
"What does your husband think of these?"
Gyp was silent a moment.
"I don't show them to him."
She never had; she instinctively kept back the knowledge that she
composed, dreading his ruthlessness when anything grated on his nerves,
and knowing that a breath of mockery would wither her belief in herself,
frail enough plant already.
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